It was midday in Murren, Switzerland, and things were heating up. The April sun was shining and the new snow was rapidly turning into mashed potatoes. We stood at the top of the Schilthorn, scouring the tracked out slopes for the last glimpses of untracked pow. Our improv dance parties, 90’s pop songs, and heel clicks were taking a temporary hiatus. We were borderline hungry, and about to get schooled on the shortest boot pack of the trip.

Ski photoshoots – sounds glamorous right?

We decided to boot pack up a short hill that rose just above the piste. Guesstimating, we left Jeff at the bottom and told him we’d be ready in 5. The snow was hollow, the rocks were sharp, and Amie’s head cold was rearing it’s ugly head. While we post holed through hollow snow and rocks, we intermittently let our frustrations be heard.

“Maybe you guys should side step?” Jeff suggested.

“No dad, we’re fine, we’re almost there. I just don’t feel good.” Amie said, a little exasperated. She looked more like she was building a snow couch than a boot pack.

“If you’re sick maybe you should stick this one out?”

“Dad! I’m not going to take a break! If I stop I’ll miss the best shot of the whole trip! I’m fine!”

At the time, I doubted that this was the shot of the trip, but apparently Amie was on to something.

After our struggle fest to the top of the knoll (it may have been worth it to side step…), the Jungfrau, Monch, and Eiger rose into view. As I pushed off the top to ski towards Jeff, the snow was lighter, softer, and faster than anything else we had skied that day.